Going Down in La-La Land (9 page)

I had just finished my latest tirade about how intolerable life at Acclaimed Talent Agency had become.

“
Are you kidding? I’m just a parking stamp or bottle of Pellegrino as far as they’re concerned. Besides, even if they cared to speak to me to begin with, we’d be continuously interrupted by my answering and connecting calls. Or getting rid of them, depending on what kind of freak is on the other end,” I said flatly while picking wax out of one of tens of cast iron candleholders placed around the terrace.

“
I can see how that would be a problem,” she pondered, flicking her ashes over the railing. “What we really need are some mentors.”

Candy was forever going on about mentors, and how it was really important to have an important role model in life. Her idea of an important role model was Sharon Stone or Cathy Moriarty, both of whom she was always thinking of trying to contact.

Personally, what I felt I really needed was a few thousand dollars saved to give me a decent start on an apartment and time to buy to find a decent job.

But coming to LA with less than $500 in my pocket hardly provided the luxury of time to seek out a rewarding job that actually led to a career. And with a one-hour lunch break that was strictly enforced, looking for something better seemed a near-impossible task.

The temp agencies I called still made appointments for a week or two ahead. In New York I usually walked in or even went out for an assignment the same day I called. Everything in LA was a big production, even if it wasn’t showbiz related.

In fact, any temp agency that took me would probably just send me out on a job like the one I had now, answering phones. Besides, some of the temping experiences I had in New York were just as scary as Acclaimed Talent Agency. And doing extra work seemed hardly in the cards for me either, as I called that stupid hotline at Central Casting all the time and they never had any work for my look or age range.

As a matter of fact, Central Casting had only called me once in three months.

“
Is this Adam Zeller?” a snappy voice called one day.

“
This is him,” I answered.

“
We submitted your profile to some show producers and they want to know if you are available for an audition in Santa Monica this Wednesday between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m.”

“
Is it for a speaking part?” I asked.

“
No,” the woman answered impatiently, “just background.”

“
Well, didn’t he see the photos you took? Isn’t that enough?” I asked. It was a bit much to want someone to drive out to Santa Monica during a workday to be an extra.

“
He still wants to see everybody in person. Can you do it?” she pressed.

“
Not this time.”

That was the last I’d ever hear from Central Casting.

It amazed me that people were willing to drive miles to audition for an extra job that wasn’t even guaranteed. Was everyone out here on crack? Wasn’t it enough that Central Casting already had a picture of me that I had waited around for half a day to take? Not to mention all the frustrated and deluded professional extras I had to wait around with. What a waste of time, gas, and mileage. Not to mention the fifty bucks they charged to register with them.

There had to be something else I could do other than answer phones and stick bright orange validation stamps on parking tickets.

I thought about modeling, but the reality was that I just wasn’t that stunning. An attractive guy, maybe, but no stunner. While in college I had given it a try. My modeling career had lasted a mere few months and consisted of a page in
Details Magazine
and a hack runway show at a downtown nightclub named NV Bar where the biggest name in attendance was Grace Jones. I didn’t have money to sink into pictures, but if you looked that great you shouldn’t have to, an agency took care of that. That should have clued me in at the beginning that modeling wasn’t in the cards for me.

Always being strapped for cash, however, I was not above doing another kind of modeling. And LA was the capital for this sort of modeling. I had done nude modeling before in New York, when Candy gave me the number of her hung-like-a-horse photographer friend. If I did it back there, I could do it again here.

After getting out of Acclaimed one night, I drove to the nearest magazine stand and grabbed
XXX Showcase Magazine.
In the back it had the
Adam Gay Video Directory
which listed all the gay adult film companies. I was sure I could call some numbers out of the back of this and find some jobs that would help me out with some extra funds to pay my bills.

I even recalled the name of a company that an aspiring independent director I met in New York told me about. His name was Perry Bristol, and he supported himself and his mainstream film aspirations by moonlighting as a director of porn.

The company was ingeniously titled HUNG Video. Perhaps if I told the people there that I knew Bristol, their star director, they’d come up with some gigs for me right away.

In the meantime, life at Acclaimed Talent Agency continued. Surely I could find a better job in a week or so; it couldn’t be that hard. After all, I found a job at this shit hole after only a few weeks in town. I had shot myself in the foot before, quitting a job without having another one lined up. But this place was just making me miserable, with no time to interview for anything else. And my misery must have really showed.

“
You might think you are too good for this job, but we all have a job to do and you need to do yours too,” Matthew the head receptionist said one day in a sharp tone that basically conveyed all the venom and contempt he had for me.

Management had begun to split up Kim and me, for fear that we were getting along too well and not paying enough attention to the phones. The consensus was we were not behaving stoic and serving enough to visitors.

Which was kind of the truth.

Still, it didn’t feel any better to be treated as though you were kindergartners who had to take their mats to opposite corners of the room during nap time.

And to top it all off, I knew the Mexican valet guys were reckless with my new car, noticing some dings on it already and hearing them come around the corner like Speed Racer. One valet in particular liked to fart in it before I got in, so it stunk to high heaven. And man, could he ever break some foul wind. I could just see them laughing at as I drove off, joking in Spanish about stinking up the gringo’s car. That was a real slap in the face, or rather an assault on the nostrils, after working a demeaning job.

The farts in my car were the final straw. Patience had never been a strong virtue for me; if anything, I am way too impulsive. And it got the best of me again. One morning when I really didn’t feel like being there I walked into the administration’s office and gave my notice.

“
Oh no,” Whitman cooed, tilting his head to one side and doing his best to sound surprised and disappointed, despite having gone through dozens of receptionists during his tenure there.

“
Where will be you going?”

“
I got a job working on a friend’s film,” I lied.

It sounded a lot better than “I don’t have shit to go to, but if I stay here one more day I’ll throw myself out the window.”

Less than two weeks later
I
was out of there for good, marking my end on the phones at Acclaimed Talent Agency forever. It also marked the beginning of my slide into the seedy underbelly of La-La Land.

Where the interaction, social hierarchy, and manic personalities at the talent agency were unbearable, the porn industry was just plain mind-boggling. I would come to find out both environments had plenty of larger-than-life characters. The difference was in the porn world people actually treated each other better and lacked the big egos. Those involved were realistic about the kind of work they did, and that they were considered the bottom of the barrel by the rest of Tinseltown. Yet at least they were honest and up front about being money-grubbing pigs and users, which was more than I could say for the suits at the agency. It was sad but true, the dirty world of porn was nicer than the legit business world, whether it be a television network or Wall Street.

As far as taking my clothes off, I had no problem with it. I always said that if it came back to haunt me, I would tell the truth.

“
I was poor, broke, and needed the cash,” I would fantasize myself crying to an interviewer upon getting famous someday, my past being found out. Boo hoo, boo hoo.

Everyone has to pay the bills somehow. And if you are an artist of any kind, be it actor, writer, painter, or whatever, at times you had to be very creative to make ends meet.

I figured I could just be in some solo videos and pose for some naked pics. Perhaps HUNG Video had production work I could do as well. I wouldn’t have actual sex on camera though. What if someday I did come to a position where it came back to haunt me? Jerking off in front of the camera alone was one thing; fucking another guy was something entirely different.

I was still paranoid about sex anyway and never fully relaxed when it came to it. I have always practiced safe sex (or safer sex, as it is called now) but still suffered from a bad case of nerves after every time I fucked a guy I didn’t know well. Hypochondria and prostitution don’t mix very well.

I spoke to the man in charge at HUNG Video, a guy named Ron. He sounded very Middle America, almost like an insurance agent from Missouri.

“
Hey, Ron. I’m Adam,” I introduced myself on the phone with some trepidation. “I’m looking for some work, and thought I’d give you a call. I got your name from Perry Bristol; we met a few months back in New York.”

“
What do you look like?” Ron cut to the chase.

“
Well ...I’m six-one, dark brown hair, hazel eyes, swimmers build, and I’ve been told I’m a good-looking guy,” I answered honestly, not wanting to overexaggerate.

“
Can you come by this afternoon?”

“
Sure,” I answered. That was quick. Good thing since I needed some bucks badly.

Ron gave me directions. HUNG Video’s offices were located on Hollywood Boulevard, just a few blocks east of La Brea in an old high-rise that had obviously been constructed in the 1960s. The cavernous garage smelled like piss and the lobby of the building was in bad need of repairs. The directory had those white, blocky letters straight from the 1970s, very retro. I took the elevator up. A guy at the front of the office steered me along while checking me out.

“
Go down the hall and make a right at the last door.”

On my way down the hall I passed a room that was obviously where the graphics must have been designed. Porno cases were scattered everywhere. Images of men with oiled-up bodies and tan lines stared at me from every direction.

I stepped into the right office and found Ron sitting behind his desk. He looked like a high school football coach. Actually, he looked exactly like Dave from the Wendy’s hamburger chain—same white hair, dopey blue eyes behind glasses, and lumpy build.

“
Yeah, that’s right,” he spoke loudly into the phone. “And make sure he gets that invoice paid for . . .”

He even spoke with the same slow, flat accent. Not exactly what I was expecting. More or less I pictured the owner of a porn company to have a few gold chains, chest hair coming out of his shirt, a diamond pinkie ring, maybe frosted hair—that kind of thing.

Ron continued speaking on the phone as I sat down. He motioned he would be a minute with a wink of an eye and point of a finger. As I waited I looked through the windows. The office was on a corner and everything below was a massive grid with cars moving like ants across a picnic blanket.

“
Sorry about that!” he said as he hung up the phone with a smile. I sensed that he was pleased with what he saw.

“
So let me ask you, what exactly do you want to do, both in front of the camera and off the camera?”

“
Well, right now I’m looking to make some extra money since I just moved here,” I answered, unsure of what to say. “I thought maybe you could use some help on shoots and stuff.”

“
Cause if you want, we can get you in front of the camera in some upcoming scenes,” he answered back, getting right to the point. “I’ve got a gang bang shoot scheduled in a week.”

“
I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that at this point,” I answered cautiously, not wanting to insult him or sound like I was too good for that kind of thing.

“
You sure? I got a cute blond kid with an ass like two volleyballs stuck together flying in from Denver for a gang bang. And the other guys are mighty hot too,” he persisted.

It wasn’t that I saw anything morally wrong with it in my mind. In fact, I found the idea arousing and a turn-on and almost wanted to say yes. But it just seemed that once you crossed that line, there was no going back, kind of like entering Hades. Tragic thoughts of people who became caught up in the world of porn with nothing to fall back on after they were dried up and burned out came to mind. Like that chick Savannah who fucked all the rock-and-roll stars and then blew her head off one night after crashing her Porsche in front of her home. Not that I was expecting to sleep with Slash from Guns N’ Roses or own a Porsche anytime soon.